


dust while you breathe in pain

by steel_symphony



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Diamond & Pearl & Platinum | Pokemon Diamond Pearl Platinum Versions
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Pokemon are Scary, Byron is a dick, Gen, Set in a Hybrid Nuzlocke/Monsters AU, Setting - Coal Mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 01:56:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19879696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steel_symphony/pseuds/steel_symphony
Summary: A half-breed in a coal mineburns.





	dust while you breathe in pain

**Author's Note:**

> i actually beta'd this. wow

The light above you flickers. Sparks dance about it. An ever-seeping trickle of water _drip, drip, drops_ behind you. The air is gravelly on your tongue. Unforgiving on your lungs. The light sparkles again. D oes he want you all _dead?_

(Upon further reflection, you think you already are.) 

. 

. 

. 

A symphony of syncopated crashes. You play to your own tune: lift, swing, pick, _toss_. 

(Someone’ll collect the rock later.) 

You’re gifted burdened with lithe frame—malnourishment can do that to a person. The dizziness is easy to manage—it’s coal, coal, _coal_ all around. The fatigue is not. Sometimes you think you’re a passer-by in your own body. Your limbs are dead, mind is dead, but you’re very much alive. 

(How unfortunate.) 

Coal dust cakes your skin. Both are so dry it’s impossible to tell which is which. 

. 

. 

. 

In your dreams, you relive your childhood. 

You were trained to fight monsters. The cities were a death trap: full of people and monsters and muggers and pain. That’s what your teacher taught you, anyway. The scars on her arm rippled when she fought off monsters with a log from the fire. 

You copied her. It was hard. Then it got easier. You killed monsters. Once, a person. 

“ _Never_ trust anybody.” 

. 

. 

. 

It was hard work. Heavy steel to lift. Swing, wedge out a piece of bloody rock and toss it to a pile, only to repeat the whole process. Someone else would collect it later, and bring the minecart back. They were afraid of you, but that was because you had threatened the first person who had startled you with a pickaxe. 

It would have been easier if you had a friend, an ally. Perhaps people were looking out for you—the few people who called “food!” were welcome voices. 

. 

. 

. 

Lift. Swing. Pick. Throw. 

_p_ _ain_ _pain_ _pain_

Lift. Swing .stumble— 

—stutter .pick fumble. Pick. Throw. 

ache _throb_

Lift. Swing. Pick. Throw. 

eyes drift— 

Lift. Swing. Pick. Throw. 

Lift. 

Swing .pick .throw 

You are alone in the seam, because you are the only one who’ll fit. 

(It’s not even three feet high.) 

. 

. 

. 

“Half-breeds don’t tame monsters,” Teacher had told you: “they _become_ them.” 

“Am I strong?” You had asked, wanting. 

“Kill something stronger than a few bugs. Stop relying on me. But… 

_“Don’t get caught. Nobody will_ _come save you_ _._ ” 

. 

. 

. 

Byron Lee O’Dowd shook you awake. He had told you his full name—you nothing. _All the more better to curse him with_. 

“Wake up.” 

When you snapped at his hand, he withdrew. 

“There’s food. It’s bad cold. You’ve been working well.” 

Too bad monsters could be tamed. _Or pretend to be_. You aren’t dead yet; you’ll be dead when you submit. 

You stuff the dry stuff in your pockets. Cold or not, you are without the luxury of whether it was “better.” 

Your silence echoed; the _put_ _put_ _put_ of drills. 

“Get to work,” O’Dowd called, “and you might just make it out of here.” 

A boy playing dress-up in a coal mine winced. You weren’t getting out. 

(Silence was better than lies.) 

. 

. 

. 

You had company, once. It was short-lived. 

He stuck something in his mouth, then brought forth a shine. It clicked, sparked— 

You knocked it out of his hand; tackled him to the floor. 

They pulled you off him, you screaming: 

‘It’s a coal mine! A fucking coal mine! _Do you want to burn us alive_?’ 

You hadn’t used your voice since. 

. 

. 

. 

There were people in the forest. Tamers—although their monsters were plenty feral. 

There were plenty negatives in this world. 

There is dust behind your eyelids. 

. 

. 

. 

You don’t leave. Hell, you won’t _ever_ leave. But things pick up. You get more freedom. More food, too. A bed, if you could be bothered to march the long miles to the exit. You can’t—your muscles won’t allow for it—only pick swing toss repeat. The greatest thing they did for you was give you a muffler. It doubled for your ears, your mouth, your nose. 

You eat when you’re hungry. Sleep when you’re tired (not fatigued; you’re fatigued all the time). 

Fingernails stained red with the blood from fingertips. The skin there is raw, so you’ve learnt to toss coal with a pick. 

(It rips your muscles instead.) 

. 

. 

. 

One thing people don’t often know about coal mines is that they’re white. Rock dust covers the walls, to stop ignition. It’s probably a placebo. The wrap around your mouth is, too. 

In a far-off region, there are machines that do the digging for you. You hear the others complaining about it, but Sinnoh’s always been behind. 

You know nothing but to be _drained_. Better to let the lift, swing, pick, throw of the pick and the coal carry you away until your lungs turn black and you are crushed by rockfall. 

. 

. 

. 

“Halfie,” Byron calls. You fake sleep. “There’s food on the counter.” 

Oh. Perhaps he actually gives a shi— 

“Can’t have one of my most valuable assets starve.” 

You’re not going back you’re _not going back you’re_ **_not going back_ ** **** **_you’re_ ** _—_

. 

. 

. 

Nobody expects you to recover so quickly, so perhaps that is why you escape. The guards are on body recovery—there’s barely anyone alive enough to expend resources on those dumb enough to leave. 

_“_ _Fuck_ _,”_ you hiss, glaring at the wind. It cuts on your burns and bruises, feeling worse than the alcohol they had scrubbed them with. You stick to the alleyways and the shadows. There is a cape nearby. While it scours your half-healed skin, it stops the world falling out on you. 

(Openness makes you woozy and sick.) 

You pass makeshift graves. 

Sometimes, you wonder why you aren’t one of them. 

. 

. 

. 

Your scars don’t heal. They never will. When the stranger offers his dream of a better world to you, you grasp it with no hesitation. 

**Author's Note:**

> Not a realistic description of working in a coal mine, but I did try to do some research. I was inspired by a certain "dark" au on ff.net.
> 
> The only reason why I am suddenly flooding this account with works is because they have been sitting in a folder for a while; it was about time I let them see the light of day.


End file.
